I found my prom dress at a thrift store for $12. But hidden in the lining was a handwritten note meant for someone else: a mother’s plea for forgiveness from a daughter named Ellie. She never read it — but I did. And I couldn’t just let it go.

I’d always been the quiet kid in class; the one teachers nodded about approvingly while whispering about my bright future. But sitting in our cramped kitchen, watching Mom count out grocery money in crumpled singles, I knew that potential was just a fancy word for “not quite there yet.” And that didn’t pay bills.

Dad had walked out when I was seven. Just packed his stuff one morning and never came back. Since then, it had been me, Mom, and Grandma squeezed into our little house with its secondhand everything and faded family photos.

We made it work though. There was this quiet rhythm to our struggle, you know? Love filling in all the empty spaces where money should have been. So when prom season rolled around, I didn’t even bother asking for a dress.

I already knew what Mom would say and couldn’t bear to face that look she got when she wanted to give me something, but couldn’t.

But Grandma never let disappointment sit long in our house. She had this way of softening hard truths by turning problems into adventures, like when our car broke down and she called it “an opportunity to appreciate walking.”

“You’d be surprised what people give away,” she said with a mischievous wink when she suggested finding a prom dress. “Come on. Let’s go treasure hunting.”

That’s what she called thrift shopping — treasure hunting. Made it sound like we were pirates instead of people scraping by.

The Goodwill downtown smelled like old books and other people’s memories.

Grandma headed straight for the formal wear section, her fingers dancing through the hangers like she was reading braille.

Most of the dresses looked like they’d survived the 80s but hadn’t recovered from the experience. Then I saw it: a midnight blue, floor-length dress with delicate lacework across the back.

It was elegant in a way that seemed impossible for a thrift store find.

“Grandma,” I whispered, afraid if I spoke too loud, the dress might disappear.

She looked over and her eyes went wide. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

We checked the price tag. $12 for something that looked like it had never been worn and probably cost hundreds new.

“Sometimes the universe conspires to give you exactly what you need,” Grandma said, lifting the dress carefully from the rack.

Back home, Grandma spread the dress across her bed and got to work. She’d been hemming clothes since before I was born and claimed she could take in a dress blindfolded.

I sat beside her, watching her weathered hands work their magic.

“Hand me that seam ripper, honey,” she said, squinting at the hem. “This gown’s made for someone about six inches taller than you.”

That’s when I noticed the stitching near the zipper was a slightly different colored thread, stitched by hand not machine, like someone had repaired it.

“Grandma, look at this.”

I ran my fingers over the stitches, and something inside the dress crinkled. Grandma and I frowned at each other.

“Best find out what that is,” she remarked, nodding to the seam ripper, still in my hand.

I carefully unpicked a few stitches, just enough to create a small hole between the dress fabric and the lining, and reached inside.

“What is it?” Grandma asked.

“A paper…” I unfolded the paper carefully. “No, not just a paper; it’s a note!”

“Ellie,” I read aloud, “I sent you this dress for your prom. It’s my way of saying sorry for leaving you when you were just a little girl. You see, I didn’t have the money or the strength to raise you then. I gave you up when you were five, thinking you’d have a better life with someone else.”

Grandma’s hand flew to her mouth.

I kept reading, my voice getting quieter with each word. “But now, as you turn 18, I want to give you this dress and ask you… can you forgive me? I’ve thought about you every day. If you ever want to see me, my address is at the bottom. I love you, Mom.”

We sat there in complete silence. This wasn’t just a note — it was a plea for a second chance!

But Ellie, whoever she was, had never seen it. The dress had ended up at Goodwill with the note still hidden inside.

“We have to find her,” I said.

Grandma nodded. “We absolutely do.”

The next morning, I went back to the thrift store.

“Excuse me,” I said to the woman behind the counter. “That blue dress I bought yesterday? Do you remember who donated it?”

She frowned, thinking. “That one’s been here for over two years, honey. Never sold till you came along. Could’ve been anyone who dropped it off.”

My heart sank. How do you find someone when you don’t even know their last name?

But prom was that weekend, and Grandma had worked too hard on alterations for me not to wear the dress. So I went.

And you know what? It turned out to be magical. The dress fit like it had been made just for me, and for one night, I felt like I belonged in a fairy tale.

When they announced the prom queen, I almost didn’t hear my name. Me? Cindy from the secondhand-everything house?

But there I was, walking across the stage in a $12 dress, wearing a plastic tiara that felt like it was made of diamonds.

That’s when my literature teacher approached me.

“Cindy,” she said softly, “sorry to interrupt, but where did you get that dress?”

“A thrift store downtown,” I said, still feeling surreal about the whole queen thing. “Why?”

She gave a quiet laugh. “Oh yes, I’d forgotten. I took it there to surprise someone else the way it surprised me.” She stared at the dress. “I’m sure it’s the same dress I wore to my prom… but that’s probably weird to hear from your teacher.”

She started to walk away, but I stopped her.

“No, I want to hear all about it,” I said.

My heart was in my throat. Had I finally found Ellie?

“It’s the strangest thing. The dress just showed up on my doorstep one morning.” She shrugged. “No note, no card. I never knew where it came from, but I wore it to prom anyway. Later, I thought it apt to donate it to Goodwill.”

My heart stopped. “What’s your first name?”

“Eleanor,” she said.

“Ellie?”

She tilted her head and frowned. “Yes, everyone calls me Ellie, but—”

I grabbed her arm before she could finish. “You have to come with me.”

“What? Cindy, I’m chaperoning—”

“Please! I have to show you what I found,” I said.

Something in my voice must have convinced her because she handed her clipboard to another teacher and followed me out to the parking lot.

We drove to my house in complete silence.

Inside, I pulled the note from my dresser drawer and handed it to her.

I watched her face as she read it. First confusion, then recognition, then this raw, broken expression as tears started streaming down her cheeks.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “Oh my God, she came back for me…”

She hugged me then like I was family or the answer to a prayer she’d been carrying for years.

The next day, Ellie asked if I’d come with her to the address at the bottom of the note.

We drove six hours across state lines, our nerves humming between us like live wires.

The house was small and white with a neat front garden. We sat in the car for five minutes, neither of us ready to walk up that path.

“What if she’s not here anymore?” Ellie asked.

“What if she is?” I replied.

Ellie knocked.

An older woman opened the door.

“Ellie?” she whispered, like she was afraid she was dreaming.

They fell into each other’s arms right there on the doorstep, both of them crying. I stood back, watching this reunion I’d accidentally made possible.

We sat in her kitchen for hours. Tea was poured, stories were shared, and there were long pauses where nobody felt the need to fill the silence.

Before we left, Ellie’s mother pulled me aside. She pressed an envelope into my hands.

“You changed our lives,” she said softly. “And I don’t want your kindness to go unanswered.”

Inside was a check for $20,000.

I tried to refuse it — I really did. I hadn’t done this for money. But both Ellie and her mother insisted.

“You gave us a second chance,” Ellie said, holding my hands. “Please let us help you start your first.”

That money changed everything for me.

I’d earned a scholarship to college, but now I had a way to live while I studied. I could finally turn that “potential” everyone kept talking about into something real.

Sometimes I still think about that dress, and how it rewrote three lives entirely.

And it all started with Grandma’s favorite saying: “You’d be surprised what people give away.”

She was right. People give away treasures all the time. They just don’t always know it.

It was a parent’s worst nightmare come true when the Wesenbergs lost their little son Ted one Sunday afternoon. Unfortunately, it happened in a place that was supposed to be the safest for the family, where nothing should have gone wrong, yet everything did.

The Wesenbergs found Ted dead in their swimming pool. His body was floating like a pool float, and Paul Wesenberg had dived into the water to save his son, but it was too late—neither his mouth-to-mouth nor the paramedics he’d dialed could bring his son back.

Linda Wesenberg couldn’t bear the sorrow of losing her son, and she sat as pale, numb, and motionless as her late son at his funeral. Then as a week went by without Ted in the Wesenberg household, things turned chaotic, brutal even, and so harsh that little Clark couldn’t stand it…

Linda and Paul were struggling to cope with their loss, and they fought every day, every time. Clark heard loud noises from his parents’ room every night, and his mommy would get frustrated and eventually cry.

His daddy would blame his mommy for Ted’s death, and his mommy would blame everything on his daddy. Clark hid under his blanket every night, clutching his teddy bear and sobbing whenever he heard his parents bickering.

No loss is so profound that love cannot heal it.
When Ted was there with him, things had been so different. Their parents rarely argued back then, and his mommy was never sad and upset. She would kiss him goodnight and hug him before she tucked him in bed, but she no longer did any of that now.

She had also stopped making breakfast and often stayed in bed, telling him she was ill. Paul always made them toast and eggs for breakfast now, and he had started arriving home early to prepare dinner for them, but his cooking was not even close to Linda’s.

Clark missed his brother. He missed Ted so badly that he wished he had gone to the place where his brother was… because their parents no longer cared about their son, who was still alive.

All they cared about was who was to blame for their other son’s death.

One evening, things went from bad to worse. Clark heard his parents arguing again, and he was so frustrated that he couldn’t stand it. “Mommy! Daddy! Please stop!” he yelled as he stormed into their bedroom. “Please stop! I don’t like it when you fight!”

“Look, Paul!” his mother hissed. “I lost Ted because of you, and now Clark hates you!”

“Oh really, Linda?” Paul shot back. “And what about you? I don’t think Clark’s in awe of you!”

Clark’s parents forgot he was in their room and continued to argue. They began blaming each other for Ted’s death again, and Clark decided he didn’t want to stay there any longer. Their home was filled with screams and tears since Ted left, and Clark had started despising his home.

“I hate you both…” he whispered, tears running down his cheeks. “I HATE YOU, MOMMY AND DADDY! I don’t want to live with you! I’m going to meet Ted because only he loved me!”

Ted ran away from his parents’ room and out the front door. He paused to collect the dahlias he and Ted grew in their garden before running away to Ted’s grave in the cemetery only blocks away from their home.

“Look, you made him cry again. I’m sure you’re relieved now!” Paul snarled.

“I made him cry? Stop acting like I’m the bad person here!”

Linda and Paul continued to bicker, unconcerned about their little son, who’d run away to the cemetery alone. Clark sobbed as he pressed his fingertips against his brother’s gravestone and ran his fingers over the inscription.

“In the beloved memory of Ted Wesenberg,” read the engraving.

Clark bawled his eyes out at the sight of his brother’s grave. He missed Ted so much!

“I… I m—miss you, Ted,” he wept. “Could you please ask the angels to return you?”

“…and mommy and daddy are constantly arguing. Ted, they no longer love me. They hate me, and they don’t care about me. Could you please come back, Ted? Please? Nobody plays football with me, not even daddy…”

Clark had never felt so alone in his life. He placed the dahlias against his brother’s grave and sat down on the prickly grass, telling him about his heart’s concerns and how ignored and forgotten he felt.

Clark couldn’t stop crying as he told Ted how much he missed him, how difficult life was without him, and how much their parents had changed. He complained to him about the burnt breakfasts, how he had stopped growing dahlias, and how lonely he was.

Clark’s heart was so at ease after finally sharing his worries with his brother that he didn’t notice when the hours passed, and the sky darkened. The cemetery became deserted, and there wasn’t a single soul in sight. Yet, Clark decided not to go home because it was the first time since Ted’s death that he felt at peace.

Suddenly, he heard the rustling of dried leaves behind him. Clark looked around in fright. Who could’ve come to the gravesite at this hour? He sprang to his feet in terror as the sound grew louder and louder, still searching about.

Terrified he wasn’t alone, Clark whirled back to run, but he was too late. He saw several men clad in black robes approaching him. Their faces were obscured with hoods, and they held firebrands.

“See who has arrived in our dark kingdom! You shouldn’t have risked coming here, boy!” shouted one of the men.

“Who… who are you?” Clark asked in tears. “Please let me go!”

Clark was shaking in fear and didn’t know how to get himself out of trouble. The men didn’t let him leave.

Clark was terrified of the dudes in robes, but then he heard a man’s booming voice. “Chad, back off! How many times will I tell you not to gather in my graveyard with your idiotic pals dressed in cult garb?”

Clark noticed the tall, well-dressed man in his 50s, as he approached. “Don’t worry, boy,” he said to Clark. “These boys won’t do anything. They’re worse than kids!”

“Oh, c’mon, Mr. Bowen!” The dude who stood face-to-face with Clark pulled off his hood and sighed. “Where else are our cult’s activities intended to take place if not here in a cemetery?”

“How about you stop burning your lousy report cards here and start studying instead? Back off, or I’ll tell your mother you often smoke here! I’m sure you wouldn’t take that chance. Now, you,” he gestured to Clark. “Come here, kid. Let’s get you home.”

Mr. Bowen seemed like a nice man to Clark. He dashed up to him and grasped his outstretched arm. Mr. Bowen took the boy to a small cabin and served him hot chocolate.

“What were you doing here at this hour?” the older man asked Clark.

Mr. Bowen appeared to be a kind man, so Clark opened up to him about his parents and brother, how their lives had turned into a living hell since Ted died, and how he didn’t like his parents and didn’t want to go home.

***

Back home, Linda was panicking. She dialed Paul several times, but he wasn’t answering. It’d been over two hours since Paul left home after their quarrel.

She had been sitting at the kitchen table, venting to her friend on the phone all this while. As soon as she hung up and looked around, it hit her: Clark wasn’t around. Where’s Clark?

Linda’s heart was racing as she looked at the clock. It was past 11 p.m. when she checked Clark’s room and found him missing. Linda then went into the other rooms, the bathrooms, and the backyard, but Clark was nowhere to be found. To her, it was as if he’d vanished into thin air.

She called Paul again, no answer. “Pick your darn phone, Paul!” she cried. “Oh gosh! What do I do now?”

Linda paced nervously in her living room. She had no idea where to look for Clark until… she remembered him coming into the bedroom when she and Paul were arguing.

“The cemetery!” she recalled. “He was going to meet Ted!”

Linda grabbed the house keys, locked the door, and hurried to the cemetery. As she turned to the first street, she saw Paul’s car. He pulled over and rolled down his window.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Clark isn’t home yet!” she said, getting inside the car. “Drive to the cemetery now!”

“What the hell?” Paul cried, starting the engine. “But when… did he never come back?”

“No, Paul! We were, well…” she paused. “We were so busy arguing that we didn’t notice!”

Paul and Linda hurried to Ted’s grave as soon as they got to the cemetery. But there was no sign of Clark.

“Clark!” Linda shouted. “Honey, where are you?”

Right then, Paul nudged Linda. “Linda!” he cried. “What the hell is going on there!? Look!”

Paul and Linda were taken aback when they noticed a fire in the distance and heard voices performing chants. As they approached the gathering, they saw several teens dressed in black robes performing some sort of ceremony.

“Oh Lord,” Linda cried out. “Could they… have done something to Clark? Oh no, we’ve just lost Ted, and now—”

“Linda, no,” Paul consoled her. “Let’s not jump to any conclusions. Wait right here. Excuse me, boys,” he began hesitantly, approaching them. “Is it possible you saw this boy here…”

One of the boys smirked as Paul showed them a photo of Clark. “Your son arrived at the wrong place at the wrong time!” he shouted. “Your son should not have come!”

Paul looked intently at the teen, then at his friends. In those robes, they all appeared nothing but dumb, and they’d been burning what appeared to be their grade cards.

“Oh really?” he asked, putting his phone in his back pocket. “Well…” Paul grabbed the boy’s collar and yanked him forward.

“Listen, kid; You’d better speak out, or you’re going home with a broken nose!”

“Woah, woah, okay! Relax!” the boy Paul had warned said. “I’m…I’m Chad! And I saw your son. We did nothing to him! Mr. Bowen, the graveyard guard, grabbed him.”

“What?”

“He… he took your son, sir. I swear. He lives right outside the cemetery! We just come here every night to scare people, that’s all!”

***

When Paul and Linda arrived at Mr. Bowen’s cottage, they noticed Clark and Mr. Bowen seated on a sofa through the window. The parents wanted to burst inside and hug their son but stopped in their tracks when they overheard him talking.

Paul and Linda were embarrassed. They listened in tears and shock as Clark spoke about his heart’s worries, and Mr. Bowen advised him to reconcile with his parents. “They still adore you, little boy,” the older man said. “Look, kid. I lost my wife and child. Their plane crashed, and I’ve lived in this nightmare for years, missing them every single day and night. What’s happened in your family is any parent’s worst nightmare come true. How about we be kinder to them?”

Clark agreed, nodding at some point.

Instead of grieving the loss of what you don’t have, take the opportunity to appreciate what you do have.
Paul and Linda could no longer wait.

“I’m so sorry, honey!” Linda cried as she and Paul stormed into the cottage. She held her boy close as her tears flowed freely.

Paul looked at Mr. Bowen apologetically and thanked him for saving Clark. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you so much for what you did for our family just now.”

“No problem. I know the hell you’re going through. So, I understand. Hang in there.”

Eventually, Mr. Bowen became the Wesenbergs’ close friend. In months, idyll returned to this family’s household. They could heal from Ted’s loss and finally look at life positively.

Type “I’m outraged” if you believe kindness should never be judged.
Emily Sanchez began her days before sunrise, arriving at Sunrise Bakery in San Diego at 4:30 a.m. At only 30, she had become well-known for her flaky croissants and warm cinnamon rolls.

But within the bakery staff, Emily was known not just for her pastries, but for her daily act of compassion.

Each morning, after finishing her first batch of baked goods, Emily would wrap a fresh pastry and pour a cup of hot coffee into a to-go cup.

She would quietly slip out the back door and place them on a bench at a nearby bus stop. Alongside the breakfast, she’d leave a handwritten note that simply said, Wishing you a peaceful day.

The food was always for the same person: an elderly man with silver hair and a worn coat, who never asked for anything, never spoke, but was always there.

In six years, Emily had never learned his name. Their exchange was silent, limited to a brief nod or glance.

Behind her back, coworkers whispered. “She’s wasting product,” one would say.

“One day he’ll take advantage of her,” another warned. Things worsened after the bakery changed ownership. During her review, the new manager delicately suggested she stop. “

Your generosity is admirable,” he said, “but some customers feel uneasy. Maybe donate to a shelter instead?”

Emily listened, smiled politely, and changed nothing—except she started arriving earlier so no one would see her.

She thought her secret was safe until a new employee spotted her and muttered, “She’s been feeding that bum every day for five years.” A nearby customer shook her head. “Poor girl thinks she’s doing something special.”

The words stung—not because Emily cared what others thought, but because they couldn’t see what she saw: a person, not a problem.

Her mother had once warned her she was “too soft,” especially when she got engaged to Marco, a firefighter who understood her quiet rituals. He, too, gave without needing attention.

One rainy December morning, Emily noticed the man shivering. Without hesitation, she left her own scarf with his food. The next day, she found a note scrawled on a napkin: Thank you for seeing me as a person. She kept that note in her wallet.

As her wedding approached, she naturally ordered the cake from Sunrise Bakery and invited the entire staff.

Two days before the wedding, a letter arrived at the reception venue. It had no return address. Inside was a card that read: Tomorrow I will come—not for cake, but to repay a debt.

On the morning of the ceremony, Emily watched through the bridal room window as guests arrived.

Then she saw him—the elderly man—standing awkwardly near the entrance in a cleaned but threadbare suit. Guests whispered, “Who invited him?” “What’s he doing here?”

Without hesitation, Emily lifted her dress and rushed to the entrance, embracing the man warmly. “I remember your eyes,” she whispered. He smiled and replied, “And I remember how you treated me like I mattered.”

Suddenly, a dozen U.S. Marines in full dress blues entered the church. The lead officer stepped forward, saluting Emily. “We are here to honor the woman who cared for a hero in silence.”

He gestured to the man. “This is Sergeant Victor Hale, a Marine who saved nine lives in Fallujah in 2004. After losing his family in 2016, he vanished—refusing benefits, hiding his identity.” Guests gasped.

Another Marine stepped forward, holding a medal and a faded photo. It showed a young Hale carrying a wounded soldier through a battlefield. “That soldier was me,” the captain explained. “He saved my life, and yours, Emily, helped him find his again.”

Victor turned to her. “I have nothing left to give but my thanks—and my story. You never asked who I was. You just gave.”

After their honeymoon, Emily and Marco used their wedding gifts to create The Quiet Table—a small breakfast service for homeless veterans.

No signs, no press, just warm food and human dignity.

Victor never returned, but each month Emily received a postcard from a different state. Each bore the same message: Every breakfast is a salute. Thank you.

On their first anniversary, the twelve Marines returned in civilian clothes, each bringing a flower. “We’ll take turns volunteering,” the captain said. “This legacy won’t be forgotten.”

Emily’s simple kindness became a movement. Veterans across the city learned there was a place where no one asked questions—only offered a meal. Above the serving table, she framed Victor’s note.

Thank you for seeing me as a person.

And below it, Emily added:

Everyone who sits here has a story worth hearing.

Type “I will live with kindness” if you believe one meal can change a life.

A homeless and poor Brandon offers his last $2 to an elderly man in need at the gas station store and inherits his company the next day. Brandon thinks this is the start of a new life for his family, but a powerful enemy wants to take it all away.

Brandon clutched his paper cup with change as he shuffled into the gas station store. He was near an aisle when a loud voice distracted him. He craned his neck and noticed a queue of angry shoppers waiting behind an elderly man who had difficulty hearing.

“I’m sorry, young lady, what did you say about the water being funny?” the elderly man asked the cashier.

“Money!” she groaned. “I said you don’t have enough money, sir!”

“Yes, it was a sunny day!” replied the man with a frown.

“You need more cash! For the water!” A younger guy standing behind the man grabbed him by the shoulder and yelled into his ears, causing him to recoil.

Brandon noticed everything. He was tempted to step in, but he didn’t want to attract the shoppers’ ire. Meanwhile, the elderly man explained he didn’t have enough cash, asking if he could get a smaller bottle of water as he needed to take his pills.

“If you can’t afford to pay, you’ll have to go!” shouted the cashier.

“I can go?” He smiled and turned to leave, but the cashier lunged across the counter and snatched the water bottle from his hand. “Just get out, old man!” she hissed. “You’re way too much trouble!”

“Yeah, get lost, old fart!” A woman standing in the middle of the queue yelled.

The elderly man requested that he needed to take his pills, but his pleas fell on deaf ears.

Brandon had had enough. He marched to the cashier and offered to pay for the old guy.

“Have a heart, lady,” he said and emptied his cup on the counter. The woman looked at him in distaste before she counted the money.

“That’ll cover it,” she said, taking all the money, including his last $2. “Now step aside. You’re holding the line.”

Brandon abandoned his can of beans on the counter as he offered the water to the older man.

“Here you go, sir. I got you water,” he spoke slowly and clearly, ensuring the man could see his face if he needed to lip-read. And the man thanked him. They left the store together, and Brandon headed to his tent on the bare patch of ground adjacent to the station, but the man stopped him.

“Wait!”

Brandon turned around.

“Why did you help me when you obviously needed the money?” asked the older man, noticing Brandon’s tent where Brandon’s eldest daughter was helping her two siblings wash up in a bucket.

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned from being homeless, sir,” said Brandon, “it’s that the world works when people are kind to each other. Sadly, nobody was going to help you at the store.”

“But what are your kids going to eat? I saw you leave the beans on the counter.”

“We have the last of yesterday’s bread, and there’s a good chance I’ll find some scraps at that fast food joint across the street,” Brandon replied. “We’ll get by.”

The man walked away but with a frown. Brandon noticed he got in a gleaming SUV and wondered why a man like him couldn’t afford a bottle of water.

The next day, while Brandon was dividing cold fries among his three kids, a silver sedan pulled up near his tent. A man in a fancy suit got out and approached him.

“Morning, sir. Mr. Grives’s last wish was for me to deliver this to you,” he said, extending an envelope.

Brandon wiped his hands and took it. There was a letter inside.

“Dear sir,

Yesterday, you proved yourself to be a man of good character when you spent your last few dollars on a bottle of water for me. Your kindness and belief in doing good for others have inspired me to repay your goodness with the greatest gift I can give you: my business.

My time in this world is coming to an end. I have recently become apprehensive about leaving my company to my son, as I’ve come to see that he is a selfish, entitled man with a heart of stone. It would greatly ease my conscience if you inherited the company instead. All I ask is that you ensure my son is taken care of and can continue to live a safe, comfortable life.

However, I must warn you that my son will not readily accept my decision. In fact, he will probably do everything in his power to take control of the business. You will have to be on your guard.”

“Is this some kind of joke?” Brandon looked up at the man.

The man produced a stack of printed papers and a pen. “Mr. Grives was quite serious. And the moment you sign these papers, it’ll be official. You’ll inherit his company as well as other personal assets.”

“But I just met the guy yesterday. And now he’s dead and leaving me everything?” Brandon asked as he studied the documents. He was no stranger to legalese and had managed several small businesses before he fell on hard times.

“I understand your concerns, sir, but these papers were drawn by the finest lawyers. Mr. Grives was quite clear in his intent. All we need to do is fill in your name, and the lawyers will proceed with the rest.”

This was his chance to provide his kids with a better life, so Brandon signed the documents. Then, the man drove him and the children to their new home.

As they arrived, Brandon stared up at the massive, colonial-style mansion at the top of the driveway.

“Can we put up a tent under that tree with pink flowers?” little Derrick asked.

“We’re going to live inside that house, silly! Right, Dad?” Kelly asked.

Brandon nodded, although he could barely believe it himself. But the moment he pushed the double doors open, he sensed something was wrong. The house was a mess—a table lay on its side in the hallway, a painting was impaled on the banister, and a closet had been toppled over.

Brandon dumped the luggage on the top step, ran after the car, and told the driver to call 911. A few hours later, he stood among slashed sofas and broken furniture, speaking to the cops.

“We’ve examined the entire perimeter of the house and found no sign of forced entry, sir,” the officer said. “This, combined with the fact that the security system appears to have been overridden using the correct code, suggests that whoever vandalized this place had a legitimate means of gaining entry.”

“Like a key? You’re telling me the person who did this just walked in here?”

“I’d suggest you change the locks, sir,” the officer nodded. “Whoever did this was looking for something and got very angry when they didn’t find it.”

As the cops left, Brandon suspected the elderly man’s son was behind everything.

The next day, Mr. Grives’s secretary arrived early. She took Brandon shopping and got him cleaned up at a barber before taking him to the company. In the office that once belonged to Mr. Grives, Brandon was about to go through the files on the computer when the doors burst open.

“You must be Brandon!” A middle-aged man in a dark suit entered the office and shut the door behind him. “I’m Christopher, one of Mr. Grives’s former business partners, and I’m here to save you from a whole heap of trouble.”

“I’m sorry? What trouble?” Brandon asked.

Christopher grinned and explained he handled the sales for one of Mr. Grives’s ‘specific’ businesses. Brandon quickly understood it was something illegal. He refused to continue those services, but Christopher was having none of it.

“Listen up, you moron! Grives owed me $2 million for handling the illicit side of his business! You’re now responsible for that debt,” he snarled. “And if you don’t pay up, I’ll go to the police and tell them everything. Furthermore, as the company’s owner, you will be liable for all damages and legal ramifications. So, I’ll be expecting my $2 million by Saturday. Or, you can transfer ownership of the entire company to me.”

“What? This is extortion! You can’t be serious!” Brandon retorted.

“Yes, it is. And just in case you think I’m not deadly serious…” Christopher pushed back his suit jacket and placed his hand on the butt of a gun holstered at his side. “…rest assured that if you cross me, Brandon, I’ll make you disappear. The police won’t even find enough of you to ID the body.”

Brandon said nothing and agreed to Christopher’s demands. But he wondered if Christopher was scamming him. So Brandon searched for any hints of this illicit side of the business, but no files or the data in the computer gave him the answers he needed.

By that evening, after reviewing the data from all the other departments, Brandon was convinced Christopher was lying. But then, he noticed the filing cabinet tucked into a corner of the room. Brandon unlocked it with the keys he’d found earlier on his desk. And the first thing he noticed was an old-fashioned file box tucked into the drawer.

Inside it was a ledger with entries written in some kind of shorthand, and Brandon realized Christopher wasn’t lying. In despair, he opened a drawer to find some alcohol, thinking bigshot business people had expensive bottles of scotch handy, and found nothing but a photo.

It showed Mr. Grives standing with…a younger guy. Brandon’s eyes bulged in horror when he realized how similar they looked. The young man was Christopher, Mr. Grives’s son!

Things started making sense to Brandon. He couldn’t believe a kind man like Mr. Grives would be involved in illegal business practices. So, most likely, Christopher was using his own shady dealing to blackmail him, Brandon reasoned.

A stroke of luck and a terrible twist that threatened to take it all away – everything was happening way too fast. Luckily, Brandon was not unfamiliar with the whirlwinds of the business world – he had his share of experience in entrepreneurship before it all went south and he ended up on the streets.

That Saturday morning, Brandon met Christopher in the underground parking lot but with a counteroffer.

“I’ve got to keep my word to your old man,” Brandon said, “so I’ll give you 49 percent of the company while I keep the remaining 51 percent. That’ll be enough for you to live lavishly, right? And I’ll reserve the right to manage the company like your father wanted.”

But Christopher refused. “I’m not a fool! I deserved all of it, not some token! Let’s talk when you come to your senses!” he hissed and left.

Brandon went back to the office. He decided to pay Christopher his $2 million and be done with this but found the company’s money was tied up in assets or allocated to monthly expenses. Brandon was helpless.

He returned home, dejected, where another trouble awaited him. As he opened the front door, he found his kids’ nanny tied to a chair and gagged.

“He took the kids! He said to tell you that this should be your wake-up call!” she cried as he freed her, and Brandon knew who she was talking about.

Brandon called Christopher and agreed to hand over the company, begging him not to hurt the children. They decided to meet at noon. But Brandon also called the police, and in the next half an hour, he was sitting with an FBI agent.

“Just follow my instructions, and we’ll have your kids back…” Agent Bates assured him.

That noon, Christopher was chilling by the poolside of a hotel he’d rented out. He’d locked Brandon’s kids in a closet and dismissed all hotel staff except the manager, whom he had paid handsomely.

When five minutes were left until the deadline, and he didn’t hear from Brandon, Christopher lost his cool. He decided to drown one of the kids in the pool and send the video to Brandon.

“Excuse me, sir,” the manager interrupted him. “You have a package.”

When Christopher checked the envelope, he grinned, forgetting his anger. He strode to his room and signed the paperwork he found inside the envelope. The company was finally his! Then, he freed Brandon’s children. “I’m sure a bunch of ragamuffins like you three can find your way. Now, get lost!”

Rejoicing his victory, Christopher finished getting ready and went to the mirror to fix his tie. Suddenly, he heard a click behind him. Although soft, Christopher instantly recognized the sound of a gun’s safety selector.

“FBI! Put your hands in the air and get onto your knees! You’re under arrest.”

Christopher surrendered. Meanwhile, Brandon held his children close on the sidewalk. Thanks to Agent Bates’s idea of putting a tracker in the documents, Christopher was caught.

“You’ll be filing for bankruptcy before this month is over! And you’ll pay off fines until you die!” Christopher screamed as he was led into the police car.

Brandon took the children home, ready to make everything right. And when the FBI’s fraud division showed up with a warrant, he handed over the evidence—the copy of the company’s records and the ledger he’d found in his office—to the agents, knowing that by the time the investigation was over, he wouldn’t have a penny to his name. But he’d be free.

“Daddy, are we going to leave our home again…just like we did when Mommy died?” Kelly asked him once the agents were gone.

Brandon got down on one knee and hugged his kids.

“Listen, you three, there’s a lot of details that still need to be sorted out, but we’re going to be okay. You want to know why?”

Kelly, Derrick, and his middle child, Sam, looked at him earnestly and nodded.

“It’s because the most valuable thing we have is right here, in my arms. So long as we stick together, we’ll always be rich in the most important way: love. The world’s wealth comes and goes, kids, but the love we share for each other is a treasure nobody can take away from us.”

“— Miss, may I help you?” he called to the woman, noticing how she was struggling to carry two heavy bags.
“— Sorry to approach so suddenly, but it looks like the bags are about to slip from your hands. Let me carry them for you.”

“— Oh, really? Are you sure? Aren’t they too heavy?” the woman smiled shyly. “— Thank you very much.”The man lifted the bags effortlessly, as if they weighed nothing, and strode ahead with a bold, confident gait. The woman—attractive and slightly plump—hurried to keep up, doing her best not to lag behind. The pair made an amusing sight: he was tall and sturdy, walking with a parade-like march, while she was petite, soft, and round like a freshly baked cheesecake, her curls bouncing with each step. She had to take two steps for every one of his.

“— Please, slow down a bit!” she gasped, “— I’m completely out of breath.”

He, as if coming to himself, turned around:
“— Sorry, I got lost in thought.”

“— If you don’t mind me asking, what were you thinking so deeply about?” the woman asked, looking at him closely.Her name was Galina, and she quickly observed that the man wasn’t dressed for summer — his clothes were old and mended in spots, and he seemed out of place, like he’d stumbled into this world by mistake. Her curiosity wouldn’t allow her to simply walk beside him without saying a word.

“— Come on, tell me, what made you so pensive?”

“— It’s all about myself… about life,” he sighed.

“— What’s wrong with it? Is life hard for you?”

“— No, not that…” he shook his head. “— I just think a lot.”

“— Ah, maybe you drink too?” she asked cautiously.

“— No, not at all! I’m not that kind of person.”

“— Thank God,” Galya nodded with relief. “— And what’s your name? By the way, I’m Galina, but you can just call me Galka.”

The man hesitated, as if trying to remember or, on the contrary, trying to forget something important.

“— They call me Vaska… that’s my nickname.”

“— A nickname? You don’t like your real name?”

“— It’s not that…” He lowered his gaze. “— I just don’t know what my real name is.”

Galina froze in surprise but quickly pulled herself together:
“— So, you don’t remember?”

“— Exactly. I have memory loss. They found me on the highway, barely alive. Dirty, bruised, in torn clothes. I was lying there like a discarded puppy. Someone stopped, called an ambulance, and they took me to the hospital.”

“— My God… And you remember nothing about yourself?”

“— Not a single memory. Sometimes some images appear: faces, rooms, bits of conversations, flashes of light… But it all feels like someone else’s movie.”

“— What happened after the hospital?”

“— They sent me to an orphanage. They gave me a temporary name — Vasiliy. I’ve been living with it ever since. It’s good that I’m not on the street — I have a roof over my head, food, work.”

“— What kind of work do you do?”

“— Whatever comes my way. Odd jobs: loader, market helper, sometimes I help the butcher, cleaning. I earn a little, but enough to live.”

“— And what did you do before? Do you remember anything?”

“— Nothing. It’s like I was born again. I had to learn everything from scratch. Not crawling, but living.”

“— You’ve had a tough fate, Vasya. But if you haven’t broken down, you’ll manage going forward. Memory is unpredictable: today it’s silent, tomorrow it might suddenly come back.”

“— Maybe you’re right…”

“— Of course I’m right! Why torture yourself over what you don’t remember? Live with what you have. And I see you’re a strong, hardworking guy. Would you like to find a job?”

“— I’d really like that.”

“— Then come with me. I’ll talk to my employer. She has a big house, a lot to do. Maybe we’ll find something for you.”

“— That’s great. Let’s go, what are we waiting for?”

Only then did Vasiliy realize they had been standing still for several minutes, attracting the attention of passersby.

“— Is it far to go?”

“— No, very close. I usually go by car, but today the driver is busy — so I came on foot. We ordered a turkey for the employer.”

“— And what do you do for her?”

“— I’m a cook. The job is hard, but the conditions are good. The employer is kind, though quiet. She changed a lot after the death of her son and husband. But she pays generously and treats no one badly.”

They came to a set of tall wrought-iron gates. Beyond them stood a two-story brick house, nestled among lush greenery. Jasmine blossomed on both sides of the gate, its sweet fragrance hanging in the air. Vasiliy came to an abrupt stop. A feeling stirred within him, as if a memory was about to surface — but then it slipped away like a wisp of smoke.

“— Why did you stop? Come on, don’t be afraid.”

They entered the house, walked along a neat path, and ended up in the kitchen — spacious, bright, cozy, filled with the smell of home-cooked food.

“— Here we are. This is my little world — here are my pots and pans. Come in, look around. Meanwhile, I’ll bring lunch to the employer and ask about work for you. Something will surely turn up.”

Vasiliy looked around. For the first time in a long while, he felt a strange sensation — warmth, comfort, and even a certain familiarity.

“— Sit for a bit, I’ll be quick. And eat — you must be hungry?” Galina smiled.

After a few minutes, a plate of hot food appeared in front of him, emitting a delightful aroma.

“— Here, try this. It’s still warm. I’ll be back soon.”

“— Thank you… I don’t even know how to thank you…”

“— Don’t mention it!” Galya waved her hand. “— Just eat.”Vasiliy took a spoon and tasted the food. The flavor was such that he closed his eyes — homemade, familiar, long forgotten. He couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten like that. The feeling was almost frightening.

“— Rimma, may I?” Galina quietly asked, peeking into the room.

The employer sat by an old photo album, something she often did—quietly flipping through memories of the past. Until now, Galya had never seen its contents; Rimma had always kept the album out of sight, away from the eyes of strangers.

“— Thank you, Galya, you can go rest… or wait, did you want something?” Rimma asked, looking at her intently.

Galina shifted nervously, fiddling with the edge of her apron.

“— I wanted… Please don’t be upset, okay? I have an acquaintance… He’s looking for work. Hardworking, young, doesn’t drink. Honest!”

“— Does he have documents?”

“— That’s the problem — no papers. His story is complicated. But he’s a good person, diligent…”

Rimma was silent for a moment, then nodded:

“— Alright, come, show him to me.”

“— Oh, Rimma Alekseevna, but you haven’t eaten yet!” Galya exclaimed.

“— We’ll eat later. Let’s go.”

They headed to the kitchen, where Vasiliy was still waiting. He stood by the window, thoughtfully looking into the distance.

“— Vasya, come here please,” Galina called.

The man turned. At that moment, Rimma suddenly went pale. Her lips trembled, she took a sharp breath, and slowly began to sink onto the floor.

“— Rimma Alekseevna! What’s wrong with you?!” Galina rushed to her. “— Vasya, help quickly!”

Together they sat the woman in a chair and gave her some water.

“— Are you feeling better? Should we call a doctor?”

“— No… no need for a doctor… What’s your name?” Rimma addressed the man.

“— Vasiliy.”

“— And your real name? You’re not just Vasya, are you?”

“— I don’t remember… I have memory loss.”

Rimma looked at him for a long time, as if trying to find something deep inside.

“— Klim…” she finally whispered. “— Your name is Klim.”

“— What? How do you know that? I don’t even remember my name myself…”

“— Because I am your mother. I named you myself.”

Galina froze, stunned. Her hands clutched her apron tightly, her gaze darting between them.

“— But you said your son…” she whispered.

“— I thought he was gone,” Rimma quietly answered. “— Please bring the photo album. It’s in the top drawer of the cabinet.”

When she opened it, her voice trembled:

“— My husband and I couldn’t have children for a long time. We dreamed of a baby, but the doctors shook their heads. I cried, Oleg got angry. Until his father — my father-in-law Klim — took us to his village. He said, ‘Leave this place, it’s all stress and hospitals here. Live with nature, regain your strength.’”

She turned the page.

“— That’s exactly where it happened. I found out I was pregnant. You became our miracle. And I named you after my father-in-law — Klim. He didn’t live to see your birth but knew he would become a great-grandfather.”

Vasiliy listened without looking away.

“— You were a kind, calm boy. A teacher’s favorite, an excellent student. You loved animals and spent all your time near the school’s pet corner. And then…”

Rimma sighed.

“— Oleg wanted you to follow in his footsteps. He made you into a ‘man with a future,’ as he said. I tried to protect you, but he was adamant. You began to resist: skipped classes, talked back to teachers, came home in bad shape. I begged you to stop, to go back to who you were. But you didn’t listen. One day we had a big fight. Oleg said, ‘Either he gets his act together or he leaves and never comes back.’ I broke down then. You slammed the door and said we were no longer needed. Three days later we were told to identify a body. The face was unrecognizable, but there were the watch, passport, phone… We believed it. We buried you. Soon after, Oleg died. His heart couldn’t take it…”

Tears rolled down Rimma’s face. Vasiliy gazed at the photo of the boy who looked achingly familiar — like a reflection in water. Fleeting images flashed through his mind: laughter, the scent of campfire smoke, the comforting warmth of a mother’s touch…

“— Mom…” he finally whispered, almost inaudibly.

An elderly man hesitantly approached the grand entrance of a fashionable restaurant. His suit was neatly pressed but noticeably worn — apparently, he had worn it many years ago and had only just put it on again after a long time. His gray hair lay in sparse strands, as if unsure whether to stay in its previous order. Stopping at the door, he looked at himself in the reflection of the tinted glass, adjusted his collar, took a deep breath, and entered.

As soon as he stepped inside, he collided with a security guard. The guard looked at him with such an expression as if a ghost from the past had appeared before him.

«Who are you?» he grunted. «You think this is some sort of social services or charity event?»

«I’m here for a wedding…» the old man quietly replied. «My daughter is getting married today…» The corners of his lips lifted in a bitter smile.

The security guard frowned, said something into his radio, casting suspicious glances at the guest. The old man, feeling anxiety rising within him, tried to glimpse the hall through the glass partitions, but saw nothing — the wedding was clearly taking place somewhere in the distant wing of the restaurant.

A minute later, two men in suits came out to him. Without a word, they took him by the arms and led him to a service room.

«What are you doing here?!» a woman pushed him away as if he were an unnecessary object. «Leave! You don’t belong here!»

«Sorry… I just wanted to see my daughter…»

It turned out that the people in front of him were the groom’s parents. It was hard for them to imagine that this man could be the bride’s relative.

«We’re all well-known here,» the woman said coldly, adjusting her designer jacket. «And who are you?»

«Interesting question,» the man remarked.

«But completely unnecessary,» she added. «Look around: these people are here to celebrate, not to witness someone else’s misfortune. Leave before you spoil everyone’s mood.»

The woman clearly loved to control the situation, and the more she spoke, the angrier she became.

«Vasily Igorevich,» the old man introduced himself, extending his hand.

She didn’t even glance at his palm, merely stepped further away, as if he might infect her with his poverty.

Realizing he wouldn’t be allowed into the celebration, Vasily Igorevich began to explain:

«I didn’t come here for the food… The journey was long, the road — not short. Almost my entire pension went to the ticket…»

This only heightened their suspicions.

«Then wait,» the woman suddenly softened. «We’ll gather some leftovers from the kitchen and bring them to you. You can eat on your way back.»

«I didn’t come for that,» he replied with dignity. «I need nothing… I just want to see Yanochka.»

«‘Just wants to see,’» the husband mocked him. «We paid for everything, organized everything, and he just shows up to gawk!»

«She became like family to us!» the woman exclaimed. «She’s marrying our son! Now she’s part of our family! And you think you can just come and be one of us? Nobody has heard of you, and now — bam! — here you are!»

She cast a contemptuous glance at him, especially lingering on his clothes.

«Maybe you’re not even the bride’s father? Just decided to get a free dinner?»

The grandfather lowered his eyes, hid his wrinkled hands, clasped them between his knees. He looked at his polished but old shoes, then at the immaculate leather shoes of the man opposite, and, with a heavy sigh, agreed to take the «leftovers.»

The groom’s parents exchanged glances — so they were right. The wife nodded, and they headed for the kitchen, leaving the old man alone.

In fact, Yanna really was his daughter. And he hadn’t seen her for 25 years.

No, he didn’t deny that he was to blame. He understood why they judged him. But the past could not be returned.

«If people knew how their choices would turn out, maybe they would have acted differently,» he thought. As they say, «If you knew where you would fall, you would have laid down straw.»

25 years ago, when he said goodbye to little Yanna, he didn’t think it would be forever. He was 48, his wife was 46. They had late, long-awaited children. But life had other plans. His wife was diagnosed with cancer. Treatment drained not only her strength but also their finances. After her death, he was left alone with the child.

His job was hard and poorly paid. The house needed repairs, his daughter needed attention. He had read somewhere that conditions for children in Norway were ideal. Generous benefits, help, social protection. But what about himself? Who would take care of the girl if he left to do several physical jobs?

The weather there was harsh. What if the child couldn’t handle the climate? He didn’t want his daughter to grow up in loneliness and poverty. So, in a state of severe depression, he signed the papers, sending the girl to an orphanage. It all happened in a fog — his thoughts scattered, his heart broken.

When he left her that day, his heart was torn apart. Every night, the image of his little daughter’s tears, her outstretched hands, and her plea, «Daddy, don’t go!» flashed before his eyes. He didn’t want to leave her — not for a second. He planned to return in six months. He just needed to earn some money — to buy gifts, clothes, and repair the house. He thought: I’ll come back, take Yanna, and start over. We’ll be together.

But when he returned, he learned the terrible truth. The orphanage where he had left the child was closed, and the children were sent to different cities. He couldn’t believe it. He visited countless institutions, but all they did was shrug: «Did you abandon her? Did you sign the papers? Then we have nothing to say to you.» He was accused, despised, and given no hope. He had become a stranger to his own daughter.

The money he had earned went into useless repairs. He kept the gifts, convincing himself that it could still be fixed. But the years went by, and Yanna remained an invisible memory.

He consulted with lawyers, but most of them were scammers. The internet wasn’t as developed then — no social networks, no search engines. Only legs, patience, and hopeless attempts. Hope slowly faded.

And then — after a quarter of a century — a miracle happened. By chance, he found out that his daughter was alive. And even planning to get married. How? A story worthy of a legend.

It all started with a lost phone. Vasily Igorevich had an old phone, difficult to find the owner, but he decided to help. The phone wasn’t locked. Scrolling through the screen, he accidentally clicked on an incoming message — and saw a photo of a girl… She looked just like his late wife. His heart froze.

Soon he contacted the phone’s owner. She agreed to meet. She wanted to thank him, but he asked for something else — to find out who the girl in the photo was. A coincidence or fate — it was her, and she turned out to be Yanna. The father was lucky: someone had forwarded the photo, and it reached the right eyes.

That’s how he found his daughter. After many years of separation, he traveled hundreds of kilometers to be by her side on the most important day of her life. But no one let him inside.

And then he decided to break through to the microphone himself. When the groom’s parents went for the leftovers, he slipped into the hall. The guests were puzzled but didn’t stop him. The music played in the background, but he didn’t need it. He sang — the song he once wrote for his daughter. The one he sang to her when she was little.

The hall fell silent. No one had heard this song before. It belonged only to them both.

When he finished, there was silence in the hall. Then Yanna took the microphone:

«This is my dad. He hasn’t been around all these years, but he’s always been in my heart. I’m happy he’s here today.»

She hugged him. She didn’t say much — just cried, burying her face in his shoulder. Even the groom’s parents couldn’t remain indifferent. The groom’s wife wiped away a tear, and the husband ordered to give the guest a seat.

Vasily Igorevich sat at the table but didn’t touch the food. He only looked at his daughter. At her face, so familiar, at her young husband, at the love and care surrounding her. «I’m glad they accepted her,» he thought with a bitter smile.

Later, he carefully took a small box from his pocket. Wrapped with love, but awkwardly — by his own hands. The one that was supposed to be passed down to the mother.

«This is from mom,» his voice trembled. «This is the kind of thing usually passed down from generation to generation… Now it’s yours. And then — to your daughter.»

Yanna gently unwrapped the package. Inside was an antique necklace — a family heirloom. Another link to the past, to what she had longed for.

Vasily Igorevich nervously glanced at the groom’s parents. They also noticed the gift. The mother, who had once greeted him coldly, now looked at him with respect. Perhaps not because of the value of the ornament — but because she understood how important it was for Yanna to see her father.

«Forgive me,» he finally said.

«I would…» Yanna began, but didn’t continue. The hug spoke a thousand words. The years couldn’t be returned. But now — the most important thing was that they were together.

Vasily Igorevich quietly left. He didn’t want to spoil the celebration with his worries. He returned to his old house, which hadn’t been renovated for a long time. Neighbors began leaving one by one, and his circle of acquaintances shrank. He was alone again.

But one day, he heard a knock on the gate. Something inside told him — it was her. He opened the door — and indeed, Yanna stood before him. No words, just a smile and a suitcase.

«I’ve forgiven you,» she simply said. «And I want to be by your side.»

Yanna only knew part of the truth. At the orphanage, she had been told that she had been abandoned. That she wasn’t wanted. So, over the years, she had become closed off, mistrustful. She studied well, entered university, started an independent life. The thought of finding her father never left her, but the fear of being rejected was stronger.

It was the accidentally lost phone that helped them become a family again.

Roma, what did you do to my dresser?” Vika froze in the bedroom doorway, unable to believe her eyes. The old mahogany dresser, inherited from her great-grandmother, was gone, replaced by some modern minimalist cabinet.

“That?!” Roma didn’t even look up from his phone, sprawled out on the bed. “Threw out your junk. Ordered proper furniture. How do you like it?”

Holding back the emotions bursting inside her, Vika replied,
“That was Grandma’s dresser. An antique. How could you throw it away without asking me?”

“Oh, come on,” Roma finally looked up, “it was some old junk. It looks way better now, doesn’t it?”

Vika silently turned and left the room. This wasn’t the first time Roma had taken it upon himself to rearrange her things without asking. In six months of marriage, it seemed like he’d decided he had full right to reshape her life and her apartment to suit himself.

And it had started out so well. They met at a mutual friends’ party, and Roma charmed her with his wit, charm, and attention. Beautiful courtship, romantic dates, bouquets for no reason. After six months, he proposed, and Vika, uplifted by love, agreed. The wedding was modest but beautiful. Vika’s parents gave them a decent sum to set up their home, though housing wasn’t an issue — Vika owned a two-room apartment in a good neighborhood, gifted by her parents for her 25th birthday.

The first month of marriage seemed perfect. Roma was attentive, helped around the house, and asked for her opinion on everything. But gradually something began to change. First, he moved the coffee table in the living room, saying it was more convenient for watching TV. Then he shifted the sofa. Then he replaced all the light fixtures she had carefully chosen with new ones with motion sensors.

“Do you mind if I invite some guys over tonight?” Roma came into the kitchen where Vika was brewing tea, still upset about the dresser.

“What guys?” she looked up at him.

“Well, Seryoga, Dimon, Lyokha. Haven’t seen them in a while. Want to have some beer and play on the console.”

“Tonight?” Vika frowned. “I have a presentation at work tomorrow. I need to prepare and get some sleep.”

“Oh, come on,” Roma hugged her shoulders. “We’ll be quiet.”

“The last time your ‘quiet’ ended at 3 a.m.,” Vika reminded him. “Maybe another day?”

“Vik, why are you acting like a child?” Roma waved her off impatiently. “I already invited them. They’ll be here soon. You can sit in the bedroom with your presentations if we’re bothering you.”

Without waiting for an answer, he left the kitchen, leaving Vika alone with the boiling kettle and boiling emotions. She took a deep breath. Give in again? Stay silent again for the sake of peace? But how much longer?

The doorbell rang half an hour later. Vika heard Roma greeting his friends, their loud hellos, slaps on the back. Soon the apartment filled with men’s voices, laughter, and the smell of pizza.

Vika tried to focus on work in the bedroom, but the noise from the living room grew louder. Music, shouting, bottles clinking. When the smell of cigarette smoke reached her, she couldn’t stand it anymore and came out of the room.

Chaos reigned in the living room. Five men, including Roma, sat around the coffee table covered with beer bottles and shawarma in bags, along with some greasy food. Two were smoking right in the room, flicking ash into an improvised ashtray made from a beer can.

“Guys, please don’t smoke inside,” Vika tried to speak calmly. “If you want to smoke, go out on the balcony.”

“Oh, the lady of the house has arrived!” one of Roma’s friends, Seryoga, laughed. “Roma, your better half is unhappy.”

“Vik, don’t bother us, okay?” Roma didn’t even turn to her. “Go to your room, we’re relaxing here.”

“In my apartment, by the way,” Vika felt anger rising inside. “And I’m asking you not to smoke here.”

“Oh, come on,” Roma finally turned, irritation clear in his eyes. “Who do you think you’re bossing around? Guys, don’t mind her. Go smoke on the balcony if she wants.”

Vika stood, feeling her face flush. Roma had never spoken to her in that tone before, especially in front of others. Something inside her broke, but she silently turned and went back to the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

She couldn’t concentrate on work. The words on her laptop screen blurred, and from the living room came bursts of laughter and loud shouting. She tried putting on headphones, but even music couldn’t drown out the noise. When the clock showed eleven p.m., and the party showed no signs of stopping, Vika decided she’d had enough.

She came out of the bedroom and froze in the living room doorway. The room was filled with cigarette smoke despite her request. Empty bottles lay on the floor; pizza boxes were on the sofa. Someone spilled beer on the carpet, but no one even tried to wipe the puddle.

“Guys, it’s late,” Vika tried to speak firmly but calmly. “I have to get up early tomorrow, and I’d like you to wrap up the party.”

Roma, flushed from alcohol, looked at her with clear irritation.

“Vik, why are you ruining the evening? We’re just getting warmed up.”

“I asked you beforehand,” Vika reminded him. “I have an important presentation tomorrow.”

“Oh, come on,” Seryoga intervened, “the night is just starting! Join us, relax.”

“I don’t want to relax; I want to get enough sleep before work,” Vika felt her patience thinning. “And I ask you to respect my wishes in my apartment.”

“Our apartment,” Roma corrected her, and something in his tone made Vika tense. “I live here too, if you forgot.”

“I remember very well that you live here,” Vika replied. “But that doesn’t mean you can throw parties until morning when I ask you not to.”

“Don’t tell me what to do in my house,” Roma stood up, swaying. “I have the right to invite friends whenever I want.”

Vika felt everything inside turn cold. She slowly stepped closer.

“In your house?” she quietly asked. “Since when is this your house?”

“Since we got married,” Roma shrugged. “Everything is shared, remember?”

“The apartment belongs to me,” Vika crossed her arms. “Legally — only to me. You live here because I’m your wife, but that doesn’t give you the right to act like you own the place.”

The room fell silent. Roma’s friends exchanged looks, clearly feeling awkward.

“Wow,” Lyokha said, “looks like it’s time for us to go.”

“Stay,” Roma cut him off, not taking his eyes off Vika. “So that’s how you see it? Am I just a tenant to you?”

“No, you’re my husband,” Vika answered. “And I expected you to respect my requests and my personal space. Instead, you throw away my things, rearrange the apartment to suit yourself, and invite friends when I ask you not to.”

“That’s typical female logic,” Roma turned to his friends. “Gets married and then starts counting every penny and every square centimeter.”

“It’s not about money or space,” Vika objected. “It’s about respect. Which you don’t give me.”

“Do you show respect?” Roma raised his voice. “You embarrass me in front of friends like some squatter! Are we a family or what?”

“Family means considering each other’s opinions,” Vika also raised her voice. “Not one person doing whatever they want while the other silently endures!”

“You just want to control everything!” Roma slammed his fist on the table, making bottles jump. “Yours, mine… what difference? We’re husband and wife!”

“Husband and wife are partners, not master and servant,” Vika shot back. “And yes, this apartment is mine. I have the right to ask you and your friends to behave decently here.”

“Listen,” Roma suddenly smirked, “if you care so much about your property, I’ll find a way to claim part of this apartment. By law, what’s acquired in marriage is shared.”

“This apartment was mine before the marriage,” Vika shook her head. “And you won’t get anything.”

“We’ll see,” Roma stepped closer, looming over her. “I’ve been living here for six months, investing in repairs and furniture. Think the court won’t consider that?”

Vika felt anger boil inside. She didn’t recognize the man before her — the one who had sworn love and loyalty just six months ago.

“Are you threatening me?” she asked, looking straight into his eyes.

“I’m just explaining how things are,” Roma crossed his arms. “So don’t set conditions for me here.”

Roma’s friends started shifting uncomfortably. Dimon got up from the sofa.

“Listen, Rom, maybe we really should go? It’s late…”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Roma cut him off without looking. “We’re not done with the party.”

Vika looked at her husband, feeling something inside finally break. This wasn’t the man she married. Or maybe she just hadn’t seen the real him until now?

“Enough with this circus!” Roma raised his voice at Vika but looked meaningfully at his friends. “I won’t let my wife boss me around in my own house!”

Vika felt a wave of anger rising. Six months she had tolerated, given in, kept silent for family peace. Six months watching Roma take more and more space — not just physically, in her apartment, but emotionally. And now he was humiliating her in front of his friends.

“Repeat what you just said,” her voice unusually low and calm.

“What you heard,” Roma dramatically spread his hands. “I won’t let you boss me around in my house.”

Vika slowly exhaled, as if trying to release the accumulated irritation with the air.

“Where did you get the idea that you’re the owner here? You live here on borrowed time only because I let you! So you can be out of here in a moment!”

Roma paled, then his face twisted with rage.

“Ah, you…” He didn’t finish the sentence and took a sharp step toward Vika, looming over her.

“Hey, Rom, take it easy,” Seryoga stepped between them, putting his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Let’s calm down.”

“Back off!” Roma snapped, shaking off his hand. “She’s humiliating me in front of you! My own wife!”

“You’re the one humiliating me,” Vika didn’t back down. “You turned my home into a den, throw away my things, boss me around!”

“I’m your husband, not some tenant!” Roma punched the wall. “Everything that’s yours is legally mine too!”

“No,” Vika shook her head. “Not by law. This apartment was mine before the marriage and will remain mine after.”

“After?” Roma sneered angrily. “Are you planning to divorce over some drinking party?”

“Imagine that,” Vika crossed her arms. “Because of your attitude. When we married, I thought we’d be a normal family. But you decided to be the boss.”

Roma took another step forward, now they were almost face to face. His eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Remember, dear,” he hissed through his teeth, “I’m the boss here, and I’m not going anywhere. And if you think you can kick me out, you’re very wrong. I’m registered here.”

“No,” Vika smiled. “You’re not registered. Remember, you kept postponing the trip to the registry office? We never went.”

Roma’s face tightened. He clearly didn’t expect that twist.

“You… You deliberately delayed the registration?” he spat out.

“No, you delayed it,” Vika shrugged. “I suggested it several times, but you always had more important things to do. Turns out, that was for the best.”

Roma looked at his friends, as if seeking their support.

“Did you hear that? She planned everything!”

“I didn’t plan anything,” Vika sighed wearily. “I just see now how lucky I am that we didn’t register you.”

“Enough,” Dimon stood up from the sofa. “Rom, let’s get out of here, it’s time.”

“I’m not going anywhere!” Roma grabbed a beer bottle. “This is my house, and I’m staying here!”

“This is my house,” Vika said firmly. “And I want all of you to leave. Right now.”

“You can’t kick me out!” Roma almost shouted. “I’m your husband!”

“I can,” Vika took out her phone. “And if you don’t leave peacefully, I’ll call security. Our building has great security, they’ll come quickly.”

“You’re bluffing,” Roma nervously smiled. “You won’t dare.”

Vika silently dialed a number and put the phone to her ear.

“Good evening, this is apartment 47,” she said calmly. “I have a problem with unwanted guests. Could you please come up?”

She put down the phone and looked at Roma.

“You have five minutes to pack and leave.”

Roma’s friends exchanged looks and started getting up from the sofa.

“Come on, Rom,” Seryoga tugged his sleeve. “No point in making it worse.”

“Don’t you understand?” Roma shrugged off his friend’s hand. “She’s kicking me out of my own house!”

“This is not your house,” Vika repeated tiredly. “It never was and never will be. Leave, Roma. We’ll talk tomorrow when you sober up.”

Roma looked at her, a strange mix of rage, surprise, and fear in his eyes.

“You’ll regret this,” he finally spat out. “I promise, you’ll regret it.”

“Maybe,” Vika remained firm. “But now leave.”

As the door closed behind Roma and his friends, Vika immediately dialed a number.

“Hello, Kostya? Sorry for the late call. I urgently need to change the locks. Yes, right now. It’s really urgent.”

The locksmith, whom Vika knew from work at the real estate agency, arrived in forty minutes. During that time, she managed to gather Roma’s scattered belongings into large bags.

“Complicated situation?” Kostya asked while changing the locks.

“Ex-husband,” Vika answered briefly. “Or soon to be.”

Kostya nodded understandingly and worked silently.

When he finished, he handed her a bunch of new keys:

“All done. Now only with your permission.”

“Thank you, Kostya. You really helped me out.”

After the locksmith left, Vika sat in her favorite chair and, for the first time that evening, allowed herself to relax. The apartment was unusually quiet. She took out her phone — ten missed calls from Roma. Several messages:

“Open the door!” “You can’t do this to me!” “This is my house too!” “I’ll call the police!”

Vika smiled and blocked his number. In the morning, first thing, she would file for divorce.

The doorbell rang around six a.m. Vika, who had not slept, approached the door.

“Vika, open up!” Roma’s voice was hoarse. “I know you’re home!”

“Go away, Roma,” she answered calmly. “You have nothing to do here anymore.”

“This is my house!” he started banging on the door. “Open up immediately!”

“No, it’s not your house. It never was. I’ll pack your things and leave them with the concierge. Pick them up by evening.”

“You can’t treat me like this!” His voice had hysterical notes. “We’re family!”

“We were family,” Vika corrected him. “Until you showed your true face. Now leave before I call security.”

“Go to hell!” Roma shouted. “Think you’re the smartest? I’ll make your life miserable! You’ll regret this!”

Vika silently stepped away from the door and called security. Within five minutes, Roma’s yelling stopped — they escorted him out of the building.

She looked out the window and saw him staggering across the yard. He stopped, turned around, looked up at the windows. Vika stepped back into the shadows — she didn’t want him to see her.

Later, packing his things, she felt no regret or sadness. Six months of marriage had taught her one thing: sometimes it’s better to stop in time than to continue down the wrong path.

She methodically folded his clothes, books, and small things. Everything that reminded her of their life together fit into four large bags. As if those six months never happened.

By evening, the concierge called and said Roma had picked up his things. He didn’t make a scene, just quietly took the bags and left.

Vika sat in her favorite chair — the very one Roma wanted to throw out, calling it old junk. She poured herself a glass of wine. Outside, it was getting dark, and the city lights gradually lit up, creating a cozy atmosphere.

She took out her phone and sent a message to her parents: “I’m filing for divorce. I’ll tell you when we meet. Don’t worry, I’m okay.”

Setting the phone aside, Vika looked out the window. Somewhere out there, in this huge city, awaited a new life. Without Roma, without his claims of dominance, without constantly having to defend her boundaries. She smiled and took a sip of wine. Sometimes an ending is just a new beginning…

The autumn wind swept through Central Park, carrying dried leaves past the worn bench where twin boys sat quietly. Zach and Lucas Wilson, identical down to the freckles scattered across their noses, huddled together against the morning chill. Between them rested a shiny red toy car, weathered at the edges but still gleaming where the sun caught its surface.

Someone’s gotta want it, Zach whispered, his small hands nervously turning the toy. It’s the coolest car ever. Lucas nodded, swallowing hard as he scanned the passing crowd.

His stomach rumbled, but he ignored it. They hadn’t eaten since yesterday’s, meager breakfast but food wasn’t the priority now, not with their mother lying pale and weak in their tiny apartment. Let’s try over there, Lucas suggested, pointing toward the busier path where business people hurried to work.

The twins positioned themselves strategically, summoning courage beyond their ten years. Their identical blue eyes, serious and determined, watched each passerby with desperate hope. Excuse me, sir, Zach called to a man in an expensive suit.

Would you like to buy our car? It’s really special. The man walked past without acknowledging them. This pattern repeated throughout the morning, people rushing by, some offering pitying glances, others pretending not to see them at all.

Need to try harder, Lucas said finally, his voice breaking. Mom needs the medicine today. Across the park, a tall figure emerged from a sleek black car.

Blake Harrison adjusted his custom-tailored suit jacket, nodding curtly as his driver confirmed, his afternoon meeting schedule. At forty-two, Blake had built Harrison Industries into a global technology empire, his name synonymous with innovation and ruthless business acumen. I’ll walk through the park, he told his driver.

Meet me on the east side in fifteen minutes. Blake moved with purpose, his expression neutral as he mentally reviewed quarterly projections. He barely registered the people around him until a small voice cut through his thoughts.

Sir, would you buy our car, please? Blake’s stride faltered. Something in that voice, its desperate sincerity, made him stop. He turned to see twin boys looking up at him, identical faces pinched with anxiety.

One held out a toy car like it, was a precious artifact. We’re selling it, the boy continued. It’s really fast and the doors even open.

Blake found himself staring at the twins, an unexpected tightness forming in his chest. Something about their earnest faces, the careful way they handled the toy, as if parting with a treasure resonated with him in a way he couldn’t explain. How much? Blake heard himself ask.

The twins exchanged glances. Whatever you can pay, the one holding the car answered. We just need it for our mom.

She’s really sick. Blake’s gaze lingered on the toy car. It was obviously cherished.

Clean, despite its age, with clear fingerprints showing where small hands had gripped it countless times, without fully understanding why he reached for his wallet and removed several large bills. Here, he said, extending the money. Will this help? The boys’ eyes widened at the amount, far more than they’d hoped for.

Zach carefully placed the toy car in Blake’s palm, his small fingers lingering for a moment before reluctantly pulling away. Thank you, sir, Lucas said, his voice trembling with relief. This will help our mom a lot.

Blake pocketed the car, watching as the twins gripped, the money tightly and hurried away. He should have continued his walk, returned to the day’s agenda and forgotten this brief interaction. Instead, he found himself watching the boys’ retreating figures, those identical heads bent together in urgent conversation.

Blake turned to his driver, who had followed at a discreet distance. Follow them, he said quietly, surprising himself with the command. I want to see where they live.

As his car moved slowly behind the hurrying twins, Blake stared at the toy car now resting in his hand. It had been years since anything had disrupted his carefully ordered existence. Years since he had felt this pull, this need to understand something beyond profit margins and strategic acquisitions.

Blake Harrison didn’t believe in fate or coincidence. But as he watched those twin boys through the tinted window, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something significant had just happened, something that would change everything. Blake’s car followed the twins to a dilapidated apartment building in one of the city’s forgotten neighborhoods.

The contrast between his sleek vehicle and the crumbling surroundings couldn’t have been starker. As the boys disappeared inside, Blake sat motionless, the toy car still in his hand. Wait here, he told his driver, stepping out before he could reconsider.

From this moment on, I’ll tell you more in detail!” Nastya murmured with interest, carefully wiping dust and cobwebs off her face. True chaos reigned in her temporary hideaway.

Sitting in that awkward position was extremely uncomfortable: she felt like sneezing, and her legs had long fallen asleep. But even such discomforts she was willing to endure in order to learn the truth about her husband’s intentions.

Boris was talking loudly on the phone, completely unaware that his wife was at home. He had just entered the apartment, even though he was supposed to be at work. His voice was so distinct that Nastya, who happened to be home during the day, could hear every word. And yet, he apparently had no inkling of her presence – as she had hidden in the closet.

Nastya had returned home specifically for the folder with documents that six-year-old Polina – the little hooligan – had tossed upstairs a week ago. The girl had merely been playing “hide and seek” with her mother’s important papers as a joke. It was probably her way of grabbing the attention of the parents she rarely saw. “Let them search together and then praise me,” the little one had decided.

The documents had gotten wedged between the wall and the cupboard, and now, to retrieve them, she had to move the heavy furniture. Nastya had repeatedly asked her husband to help her, but he constantly found new excuses: either he was busy, or tired, or promised to do it tomorrow.

“I’ll call my brother on my day off – I can’t manage on my own anyway,” Boris declared once again, demonstrating his infantile approach to matters.

Nastya, however, was of a completely different temperament – active and decisive. Therefore, when her boss demanded the contracts for the latest deals, she made the only correct decision: drive home personally and sort out this problem.

“I’ll bring them right now!” she confidently told her boss and set off for home.

“Long overdue! You’ve been feeding me promises for a week now!” grumbled the displeased boss.

To Nastya’s own surprise, she managed to shift the cupboard. Perhaps the strength came from her anger toward her husband. Besides the folder, she found several long-lost items and a thick layer of dust.

“I’ll quickly run the vacuum, then head to work,” the woman thought. “Let Boris put the cupboard back in the evening.”

However, her plans were interrupted by a sudden sound – Boris had entered the apartment while still talking on the phone. He was entirely absorbed in his conversation.

“What is he doing here?” Nastya wondered, crouched with the folder in her hands.

Her curiosity grew when she caught snippets of the conversation. It turned out that Boris had deliberately taken time off work so that no one would interrupt his “delicate conversation.”

“What delicate conversation?” Nastya pondered, straining to listen.

Now, leaving her hiding place would have been reckless. Nastya decided to stay hidden and find out with whom exactly her husband was having these “delicate” conversations.

“Go ahead, dictate the number – I’m writing it down,” Boris continued. “Of course, I’ll call you later! How could I not report back? Yes, I’ll tell everything!”

After a short pause, he spoke again, this time more formally:

“Hello! Can I have a paternity test done at your facility?”

At those words, Nastya froze, overcome with shock.

“What?!” she whispered, unable to believe her ears. “Come on, explain in more detail! What is he up to? What kind of test is this? Whose paternity? Is he doubting that Polina is his daughter? Or does he have someone else?”

Meanwhile, her husband continued his conversation:

“Understood. And how much will it cost? And how fast will I get the results? That expensive? This is nothing but a rip-off! I understand, it’s not just a regular blood test… I’m not a child who needs everything explained to me! Okay, how long does the procedure take? Yes, understood. And what materials are needed? Hold on, I’ll write it all down…”

Nastya stood, holding her breath, recording every word Boris said. Her thoughts raged: should she come out now and give her husband a good dressing down or wait and listen until the end? His intentions seemed obvious, but one important question remained: who was the subject? Could it be that there really was someone else besides their daughter?

After finishing the call with the clinic, Boris immediately redialed his mother. Now everything became clear – the first call had been to her. Boris’s tone took on the apologetic air familiar to Nastya when he spoke with his strict mother. It was a reminder of his childhood, when a stern woman had raised her two sons with particular severity. Though he loved his mother, it seemed Nastya believed he feared her a bit. And now, by all appearances, he was executing her orders, coordinating every move with her.

“Hello, Mom, I found out everything. Yes, I just called. They explained what needs to be done. But can you imagine the price they asked for? I’m just in shock! How can they rip people off like that? We’re only trying to learn the truth. We have that right,” Boris began, clearly already feeling guilty.

After waiting for his mother’s response, he continued, “Thank you, Mom! I knew you’d help with the money. Without that, Nastya would immediately suspect something amiss. She’d ask where I spent so much money. And you know I’m not good at lying.”

His words completely threw Nastya off balance.

“He’s not good at lying! Truly!” she whispered, barely holding back her indignation. “And who is this sly one that makes you suspicious? Spill your secrets, you scoundrel! Lay all your cards on the table!”

Nastya needed to find out whom her husband suspected – was it Polina, their daughter, or was it a child born out of wedlock? The answer could change everything.

She recalled how she had met Boris. It had happened purely by chance. He had approached her in a bar where Nastya, along with her friends, was celebrating receiving their diplomas. They were having such a carefree time, dancing with such bright energy that those around them applauded.

“Girls, hooray! We’re now lawyers!” they joyfully exclaimed, infecting everyone around with their enthusiasm.

And then a rather modest young man, watching their merriment from afar, invited Nastya for a slow dance. From the very first moment, he charmed her with compliments, declaring that he had never met a more beautiful woman.

From that moment, their romantic acquaintance began. Boris wooed Nastya with special passion, repeating daily that he was madly in love and couldn’t imagine life without her. However, Nastya was not in a rush to tie the knot, so she agreed only two years after their meeting.

For her, family was not the main goal in life. She dreamed of a career, of achievements, and financial independence. But fate had other plans: a year after their wedding, she learned she was pregnant. Polina was born – a little girl they both cherished with all their hearts. Nastya had always felt that Boris was even more attached to their daughter than she was. He spoiled her immensely, forgave all her mischief, and allowed almost everything. Their resemblance shocked all their acquaintances – they were like two peas in a pod. “There’s no need for a DNA test here,” people often said when they saw them together.

So why, then, was Boris now beginning to doubt his paternity? These thoughts tormented Nastya. Had these doubts haunted him since Polina’s birth? Or was it not about their daughter at all?

Her head pounded from the tension. It turned out that she knew nothing about the man with whom she had spent so many years.

“Mom, you really came up with something clever with this test,” Boris continued, outlining his intentions. “Of course, before taking such a serious step, one must be one hundred percent sure that Danilka is my son. I have no doubts about Polina – she’s like a sister to me. But this boy… He doesn’t resemble me at all, and that raises concerns.”

“Traitor! When did you ever have such doubts?” Nastya, still hidden behind the cupboard, seethed.

“So there really is a child on the side. Lika and Danilka… What an interesting life you have, Boris! And I thought you loved us – me and our daughter.”

Nastya took a deep breath, striving to remain calm even though inside she was boiling with anger. Meanwhile, Boris continued talking with his mother:

“Yes, Mom, you’re right. Before making a decision – to leave for Lika and the child – I have to be sure that he is indeed mine.”

Nastya had long suspected that her mother-in-law was meddling in their relationship, trying to sow discord between her and Boris. The woman clearly harbored little love for her granddaughter Polina, unlike her elder son’s children. Polina, sensing this, also did not strive to get close to grandma Zhenya. She much preferred spending time with her parents.

Realizing that not only was Boris cheating on her, but he had also managed to father a child on the side, was a true shock to Nastya. And his plans to leave her and their daughter for a new family – that surpassed all her expectations.

The woman was so stunned by what she had heard that she was even afraid to move. If her husband noticed her now, she would simply lose control. The only way out seemed to be to kill him on the spot. But to prevent that, she needed to calm down quickly, gather her thoughts, and weigh all her options. Only then could she decide how to take revenge on this traitor.

“Mom, you know, after the incident with Sergey from our department, when his wife claimed during the divorce that their son wasn’t his, I started to treat this matter with caution. That was a long time ago. And it’s as if you read my mind. If everything is confirmed, a new life awaits me – with a new wife and the son I’ve always dreamed of.”

With these words, Boris left the apartment, and Nastya finally managed to get out from behind the cupboard and stretch her numb legs. In her hands she still clutched the folder with documents that needed to be delivered to the office. That was exactly what she would now do, and on the way she would decide on her next actions. For what she had learned promised nothing but divorce, property division, and a life for Polina without a father, whom the girl adored.

In the toughest moments of life, Nastya always switched to rational thinking. That trait had helped her overcome stressful situations many times. And now, during her ride to work, her mind began working exactly that way.

She recalled the argument with her future mother-in-law that had taken place a week before the wedding. The reason had been trivial, but Evgenia Alekseevna had not held back and revealed her true attitude toward her daughter-in-law:

“Who are you? Where did you come from? You spoil everything! You’re turning my son against me!”

At that time, Nastya had only silently endured the attacks.

“Angela – now that’s a different matter! She’s such a good girl, she loves Boris! And you… Where did he ever find you?”

“Angela! Of course, it’s her!” Nastya suddenly realized. “Lika from Boris’s conversation – that’s Angelika! The very ‘good girl’ who perfectly fits under the control of the mother-in-law.”

This discovery made the woman shake her head. Now everything was falling into place: her mother-in-law had never refused to realize her dream of having that very girl by her son’s side.

“So, war it is!” Nastya declared confidently aloud. “I never officially declared it, but I have been preparing for it from the start.”

After that pre-wedding quarrel, Nastya had even refused to accompany Boris to the registry office. Convincing her had been extremely difficult.

“Alright,” she had said then. “But I have one condition. It’s the guarantee that one day you – like your dear mother – won’t betray me.”

“I agree to anything!” Boris had passionately replied. “I’m not going to betray you!”

“Then let’s finalize the purchase of the apartment we chose today. We have the money – what’s there to wait for? Let’s register it in my name. Before the wedding. Do you trust me? If not, let’s draw up a notarized contract specifying the amount you invested. I’ll never cheat you, but if anything happens – you’ll have a document. Agreed?”

“Yes! Write it down!”

Nastya quickly drafted the text of the contract, noting that she would sign it at the notary’s office the next day. However, she never remembered it again afterward. That document held no legal force, but the apartment purchased before the marriage remained her personal property.

Back then, they were happy and didn’t anticipate any betrayal. Now, having handed the folder with documents to her boss, Nastya headed to the lobby with its soft sofas and green plants, where the staff could relax. There she dialed her mother-in-law’s number.

“Hello?” replied Evgenia Alekseevna in noticeably gruff tones.

“Listen carefully! Unlike your son, I don’t need to wait for the paternity test results. I already know he is cheating on me,” Nastya stated calmly.

“What? How can you be so sure?” Evgenia Alekseevna exclaimed, startled.

“That doesn’t matter. What is important is: I do not know where your Lika and her child live, and I’m not interested. But starting today, Boris will no longer live in my apartment. And I will file for divorce today,” the woman asserted firmly.

“What—your apartment?! Have you lost your mind? This is a shared apartment! Boris invested just as much as you did!” Evgenia Alekseevna protested angrily. “If you’ve decided to divorce, then prepare for property division!”

“No, this apartment belongs solely to me. And we won’t share it. Perhaps Boris never told you because he was afraid of your negative reaction. But that’s your problem.”

“What are you even saying? This is just stupid lying!” the mother-in-law refused to believe.

“I’m not lying; that’s just not in my nature. The facts are: we bought the apartment before the wedding, and it’s registered entirely in my name. With your family, one must always be on guard – that’s why I took care of myself in advance. See? It wasn’t for nothing!”

“This just can’t be! I’ll call Boris right now and find out everything!” Evgenia Alekseevna fumed.

“Please, do. And tell him that his belongings can be picked up from the neighbors this evening. Polina and I will go to my parents’ place, so as to avoid scenes that might traumatize the child.”

After hanging up, Nastya decided it was time to go home and get rid of everything that reminded her of the traitor. The divorce papers could be filed later – it was now quite easy, just a matter of opening the internet and acting.

When Boris returned home after work, a surprise awaited him. He had expected a serious conversation, unable to believe that Nastya could really do such things. He even had his excuses prepared, but reality exceeded all his expectations.

There was a new lock on the door, and next to it a note informing him that his belongings were in apartment No. 17.

Gathering his bags, Boris went to his mother’s place. Lika and her son were temporarily living with her, and living with them would be strange, especially considering that the paternity test had not yet been done, and there was no certainty that Danilka was his son.

“How could you so foolishly lose your money?” Evgenia Alekseevna shouted at him. “Where will you live now? With me? And what, are you planning to drag Lika and the child here?”

“So far, there’s no other option. We’ll figure something out later,” Boris shrugged.

“You’ve already ruined everything once! Now you have to deal with it on your own. You’re left without a home and money. And you know what? I’ve never liked your Nastya from the very first day I met her. What a despicable and unprincipled person she is! I won’t let this go!”

“Yes, unprincipled,” Boris agreed, lowering his head. “She once promised me…”

Evgenia Alekseevna stared at her son with concern while he nonchalantly dined at her kitchen table. His wife had just kicked him out of the house, yet he behaved as though nothing special had occurred.

“Mom, why are you looking at me like that? Who else but you was pushing me against Nastya? Who was trying to set me up with Lika after all these years? And now you say that we are blameless?” Boris remarked between bites.

“How dare you blame your own mother for everything! Come on, son, keep it up! Say that I wished you harm, not happiness!” Evgenia Alekseevna couldn’t contain her emotions. They bubbled within her, making her visibly agitated.

Everything was going terribly wrong. But, as they say, water wears away stone. Once, three years ago, on the occasion of Boris’s daughter’s third birthday, the old story took a new turn.

Then, after a small celebration of Polina’s birthday, Boris decided to drive his mother home.

“Son, do you remember Angelika?” his mother asked casually, glancing out the car window at the houses passing by.

“Angelika? Of course I do. But isn’t she married? As far as I know, everything is fine with her,” Boris replied in surprise, having long forgotten about the girl he had dated before Nastya.

“No, Boris, things aren’t fine with her. Quite the contrary – terribly bad. Her husband turned out to be a scoundrel, abandoned her without money. Thank goodness they didn’t have children,” Evgenia Alekseevna answered sadly. “Now she lives with her mother.”

“How do you know all this? Do you still keep in touch with Antonina, her mother? Why, Mom? Wasn’t one person enough in the past?” her son reproached.

“We never really stopped communicating. You know, I owe Antonina my life. If it weren’t for her, I’d be sitting behind bars because of debts,” sighed Evgenia.

“Come on, stop dredging up the past! That was a long time ago. Forget it and don’t talk to her anymore. She’s a real manipulator. And she keeps you on a short leash!”

“It’s not that simple, son…”

Evgenia Alekseevna’s thoughts drifted back fifteen years. At that time, she was working as an accountant in a shady private company. At first, it seemed she had hit the jackpot – her salary was twice as high as in a government job. However, it soon became clear why.

The woman had to turn a blind eye to numerous legal violations by the management. Not only did she silently observe them, but she also signed documents that could have landed her behind bars. One day, they simply set her up, claiming that she owed the company a large sum.

How she managed to get out of that situation, Evgenia still did not understand. She had to borrow money to cover the debt. And then Antonina – a neighbor she only knew superficially – entered the scene. After the death of her general husband, the woman was left with considerable savings, and she readily agreed to lend the needed sum.

Antonina practically latched on to Evgenia, making her her constant assistant. Every day she called her over: sometimes to help with household chores, sometimes to go shopping together, or just to chat. Evgenia complied without protest because she knew – only this woman was willing to wait patiently until she repaid her debt.

“I’m not rushing you, Zhenya. You’ll pay back the debt gradually. I understand – you have two sons and a useless husband who just sits at home. Where would you get money from? If he were even a little useful, I wouldn’t have to put up with him by my side. Kick him out!” Antonina admonished, watching Evgenia mop the floor in her spacious apartment.

Six months later, Evgenia’s husband indeed left her. Perhaps he realized that his wife had completely succumbed to the domineering neighbor. Or maybe he simply found someone else – a woman who was always there, baking pies and listening attentively.

One day, Evgenia invited Antonina along with her daughter Angelika to her birthday. The girl was turning eighteen then. She turned out to be quite enterprising and immediately took an interest in Boris. From that moment, Antonina began actively matchmaking her daughter with Evgenia’s younger son.

“Zhenya, imagine what a pair they would make! Your Boris is smart and easygoing – the ideal qualities for a husband. And studying at the institute shows his prospects. Of course, I would have preferred someone else for my daughter, but she fell in love with Boris. What can you do,” Antonina coaxed, trying to use her influence over Evgenia on her son.

Boris, young and carefree, paid some attention to Angelika for a couple of months. But fate intervened – he met Nastya. Although the future wife took a long time to commit, keeping him in the dark for almost two years, Boris never gave up.

Antonina came to despise Evgenia for allowing her son to choose another. She held her responsible for Boris’s decision to marry Nastya.

“I remember, dear, that you never returned the full sum to me. I can take you to court. All the receipts are in order,” she threatened Evgenia.

“What can I do, Tonya? He just doesn’t listen to me. But I will work off my debt to you. Ask me anything – I’ll do it,” Evgenia A. nearly burst into tears.

Eventually, the situation subsided. After Boris’s wedding, Evgenia learned that Angelika had also gotten married.

—

Years later, Antonina reappeared in Evgenia’s life, announcing that her daughter had divorced. The reason – unrequited love for Boris.

“They must be together, and that is not up for discussion! How to achieve that – I don’t care. You are a cunning woman; come up with something so that my daughter never cries alone again!” Antonina ordered enthusiastically, waving old receipts in Evgenia’s face.

Antonina did everything possible to bring Boris and Angelika together again, who now called herself Lika.

“Sounds simpler and is trendier!” she explained when visiting Boris’s mother.

Boris was already there – a situation deliberately set up by his mother-in-law had led to their meeting. The table was overflowing with food and drinks, and the former lovers found themselves in a romantic setting.

“Well, I’m off. My friends have invited me to the theater,” Evgenia Alekseevna said with a smile, leaving them alone.

“Good for you! You did the right thing! If they end up together, I’ll burn all the receipts and forget about the interest,” Antonina praised over the phone.

“Enough already! You’re getting on my nerves!” Evgenia snapped, hanging up.

But Boris soon reconciled with Nastya and no longer wished to see Lika, despite all his mother’s insinuations.

Evgenia tried to influence him by other means. She said that Nastya wasn’t a match for him, that his wife didn’t take care of herself and didn’t love him as Lika could.

“Mom, we have a daughter. I love both my wife and Polina. Stop interfering in our relationship,” his son pleaded.

“And what if Polina isn’t yours? Are you sure?” his mother pressed further.

“Come on, you’ve got to be kidding! She’s an exact copy of me!” Boris argued.

Everything seemed hopeless. But as the saying goes, water wears away stone. One day, Evgenia Alekseevna accidentally saw her son and Lika together. They were sitting in a car near her house. The woman laughed, flirted with Boris, and then they even kissed.

—

Half a year ago, Antonina called Evgenia and announced that Lika had given birth to a son by Boris.

At Antonina’s shrill shouts, Evgenia Alekseevna’s blood pressure spiked.

“What, you want a child to grow up without a father? I’ll drag you all to court, one by one!” she raged over the phone.

“Calm down, I’ll take care of everything,” Evgenia replied, trying to seize control of the situation.

After hanging up, she realized: this woman would never let her go. She would manipulate her until her dying day. Then she decided to call her son and devise a plan.

“Son, you know Lika has a son, right?” began Evgenia.

“Yes, I know. We’re in touch,” Boris answered calmly.

“Are you absolutely sure it’s yours? Answer honestly.”

“How could I know for sure? She says it’s mine, and the timing matches. But where’s the guarantee?” he philosophically noted.

“What will you do if it really is yours? They won’t leave us alone, you understand.”

“I’ll go to Lika. She’s been calling me for a long time. Besides, things with Nastya have been growing increasingly difficult these past months. It seems she has fallen out of love with me – all she does is nitpick. I do love Polina, though. Well, I’ll pay alimony like everyone else.”

“And you’ll have to split the apartment with Nastya. You don’t really plan to just give up your share, do you? That’s another problem. After all, you’ve stirred up quite a mess,” his mother declared accusingly, forgetting her own role in this story.

“Mom, that’s an even bigger problem than you think,” Boris sighed, remembering that the apartment had been registered in Nastya’s name a few days before the wedding. Fortunately, his mother still did not know about it.

“I’ve got an idea. Perhaps you won’t have to part ways with your wife and daughter. And with these two, we’ll shut their mouths for good,” Evgenia Alekseevna announced excitedly.

“What?” Boris asked, seemingly indifferent by now regarding whom to live with. “Just don’t tell me you’re planning something illegal!”

“Don’t joke around – now’s not the time. We need to do a paternity test!”

“What test?” he asked in surprise.

“Find out if you’re the father of Danilka. Understand now? If you’re the father, you’ll raise the child. And if not – we’ll prove that they were wrong and get rid of them once and for all. You’ll save the family.”

“That sounds not bad at all! Give me the number of the clinic where I can do it. I’ll call from home so that no one overhears,” Boris rejoiced.

But who could have predicted that Nastya, who was at home at that very moment, would inadvertently hear his conversation? Such was fate.

—

That very day, Nastya gathered the things of her unfaithful husband and sent him off to his mother, having changed the locks on the apartment. After all, on paper, it belonged only to her.

“Are you satisfied now? Sitting there like a beaten puppy. How could you so foolishly agree to her conditions? To give up your money for the purchase of an apartment and allow it to be registered in Nastya’s name? I simply cannot believe my ears!” Boris’s mother berated him furiously.

“Mom, enough. The past is the past. How else would I have persuaded Nastya to marry me after the scandal you instigated? Right now, I need to concentrate on getting that paternity test done as soon as possible. Only then will I decide whether to move in with Lika and the child.”

“Act! Who’s stopping you? Tomorrow, go to her, fetch the necessary materials for the analysis, and do everything quickly and quietly.”

Learning that Boris had left his wife and temporarily taken refuge at his mother’s place, Lika and her mother Antonina were ecstatic.

“You’re doing the right thing! Here you have your son and the woman you love. I always knew, Boris, that you and Angelika loved each other. That marriage was a mistake. But now, everything will fall into place. You’ll get a divorce, split the apartment, buy a new place – and you’ll live happily!” Antonina gushed, not suspecting that her plans would collapse because of one simple fact: Boris had no share in the apartment he and Nastya shared.

Evgenia Alekseevna emphatically advised her son to keep the paternity test matter a secret. Thus, he acted cautiously, following his mother’s advice. Now, all that remained was to wait for the results and start planning the future.

—

“Mom, the results have come! They sent them to my email, and the paper version can be collected later,” Boris announced hastily in the evening.

“Well, then? What does it say?” Evgenia Alekseevna burst out of the kitchen into the living room, where her son was lazily sprawled in front of the TV.

“Hold on… I’m reading. Let me see…” Boris stared at his phone’s screen.

As he read the message, his face grew increasingly surprised and confused.

“It says… No match at all. Zero percent… What does that mean, Mom?” he asked quietly.

“That means you were deceived by your perceptive Lika! She’s as cunning as her mother! They tried to pin someone else’s child on you, you villains! I’m going to shove that document right in their faces! Now the end of your little celebration is here, Antonina!” Evgenia Alekseevna screamed in outrage.

“How can that be… I ruined my family for her sake… Abandoned my own daughter…”

“You didn’t abandon your daughter because you decided to. You were simply booted out because you talk too much and don’t watch your words. If Nastya hadn’t found out about the test, you would still be sitting at home – happy and unsuspected,” her mother retorted with a snort.

Boris looked utterly lost, unable to reconcile his emotions with his mother’s. His future now seemed murky. He understood that he would have to pay alimony for Polina and try to see his daughter as often as possible. But for that, he needed Nastya’s agreement. The rest of his life seemed bleak and joyless.

The boomerang had returned to his life – as inevitable as ever. It was a pity that earlier, when he was running from his wife to Lika, he hadn’t been wise enough to consider the consequences.

By the way, Lika stubbornly refused to give up for a long time. She continued to cause a ruckus, coming to Boris with her son. She insisted that everything had been arranged and intended to conduct an independent expert examination. She even threatened to go to the television to expose Boris’s “unprincipled” nature.

He fully understood that he had acted wrongly. But now, there was no way to fix the situation.